


I've got the story of us written (on my skin)

by Thegoldenfnch (I_write_fanfiction_sometimes)



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amsterdam, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, I guess. It follows the story, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Introspection, Jealousy, Las Vegas, M/M, Mutual Pining, New York, Pining, Repression, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, be gay do crime, dealing with trauma (badly), the soulmate au no one asked for but i wrote anyway, theo decker and his messed up head, we're writing all the eras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_write_fanfiction_sometimes/pseuds/Thegoldenfnch
Summary: My mother didn’t like to talk about the marks. I still don’t know if it’s because hers had all failed her (her first love didn’t love her back, her life-friend died, and her Life Partner, well, Dad didn’t believe in soulmates) or if it was for some other unknown reason. Maybe she just couldn’t answer the questions I’d asked, like why mine were all the same. After I was around eight I stopped asking, and by the time I was ten I’d stopped telling people. They never seem to know what to say. It was only when I got older —after my mother died, but before my dad came back— that I realized why. People never know how to react to what they view as a tragedy.------or: No one talks about soulmarks, Theo is in denial about many things (as he usually is), and Boris never says the things that actually matterA retelling. Now with soulmarks.
Relationships: Kitsey Barbour/Theodore Decker - briefly, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 73
Kudos: 267





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My wish to finish this story before I post it vs my need for reassurance that people like what I'm writing = immovable object vs unstopable force  
Anyway, I've been working on this fic for about a month and I just really want people to be able to read it so here's the first chapter. I figure I'm about halfway through right now? hopefully I can keep up a once a week posting schedule but no promises. If you enjoy it(!) I love comments, or you can find me on Tumblr [Here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iwritefanfictionsometimes)  
I am not Donna Tartt.  
Anyway! I hope you enjoy the emotional repression!

Like most people, I was born with three soulmarks: one for your first love, one for the friend you’ll be closest to over the course of your life, and one for your Life Partner (usually in a romantic sense). It’s not unusual for people to have two of the same soulmarks, some people’s best friend is also the love of their life. What is unusual is that all of mine are the same. A tiny bird perched on a faint line in three different spots. One on my left ribs under my arm, one on the back of my neck that sits just under the collars of my shirts, and one hidden on the side of my right ring finger. My mother didn’t like to talk about the marks. I still don’t know if it’s because hers had all failed her (her first love didn’t love her back, her life-friend died, and her Life Partner, well, Dad didn’t believe in soulmates) or if it was for some other unknown reason. Maybe she just couldn’t answer the questions I’d asked, like why mine were all the same. After I was around eight I stopped asking, and by the time I was ten I’d stopped telling people. They never seem to know what to say. It was only when I got older —after my mother died, but before my dad came back— that I realized why. People never know how to react to what they view as a tragedy. 

When I was thirteen, two months after my mother died and I saw the goldfinch for the first time —it looked exactly like my soulmark —  I googled what it meant to have multiple of the same soulmark. 

Another oddity: people who had the same soulmark for different soulmate relationships all either had only two marks (the overlapping ones were merged) or the two marks were right beside each other, usually overlapping. (Maybe they all were? Some just more than others?) Mine all being in different places meant something, but I had no idea what it was. 

After a year of feeling empty and then being ripped away from the tentative friendships I’d built, I thought maybe I was destined to have only the painting with me for the rest of my life. It was my mark after all. 

———

Vegas was hot and dry and everything seemed determined to leave me choking on dust. The heat reminded me of the explosion, and the dust sometimes reminded me of the feeling of coughing up particles of museum walls. My father reminded me of my mother, and Xandra reminded me that she was never coming back. Everything was a reminder of Before and sometimes I couldn’t remember why I had ever let there be an after. Why had I not joined her as soon as I found out where she’d gone? Everything in After was beige and grey, as empty as the desert. 

Then a boy had met my eyes in English and suddenly After was in screaming colour. Of course, the change wasn’t immediate —and it didn’t mean I was any less desperate to leave it, to go where she was— but (Boris, his name was) he dragged me out of my empty house and into the blinding sun. 

He had stories I couldn’t comprehend (and sometimes didn’t believe). We spent long days laying in the abandoned park drinking stolen vodka before we stumbled home down roads that shouldn’t have been abandoned, but were. We told each other secrets during those winter months. I remember one night I got spectacularly drunk (although I remember it so I must not have been the drunkest I've ever been) and told him about the Before and After. I remember the look on his face when I told him he was the only good thing about After. 

We’d been at my house that time —as we often were, his house was empty except for the threat of his father— and I was sitting on the floor, my face level with his where he was laying on the couch. I’m sure I must have looked slightly insane, eyes bright with alcohol and cheeks flushed red from how earnest I was being, swaying while I talked. 

“She was everything, and I don’t- I can’t replace her, but, Boris, you can’t understand I know, but everything was grey and like- like an old movie you know?” 

He nodded, eyes wide.

“And now it’s almost too bright? After isn’t supposed to look like this. I don’t deserve-”

He shushed me.

“Don’t talk like that, Potter.”

“I should have died in that museum with her,” I say, not seeing him.

He twists and props himself up on his elbow. His eyes are too alert for how much alcohol we’ve drunk, but his hand wavers when he reaches out to push my glasses up my nose. I stay still and silent, my mind hyper-aware of the tiny tremble of his fingers when they brush my cheek as they withdraw. 

“But then where would I be?” Boris asks, “you would leave me to Vegas?”

Even in my drunk state I knew I could never do that now; I couldn’t leave him. I would’ve never said any of what I said next —I would’ve brushed it off and made some joke about how of course I’d leave him. What, does he think he’s worth more than my mother?— if I was any less drunk or the sun had been any higher in the sky; but as it was, the only light came from the kitchen and the TV playing some movie or another in the corner. I was consumed by the thought that he Needed to know. 

“Not now. You’re the only thing that makes it worth it.” 

There was a long moment where he did nothing but stare at me. His eyes glistened with exhaustion and maybe something else. Then he collapsed back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The light from the kitchen catches harshly on his nose and jawline. The furrow of his brow makes me reach out unthinkingly to smooth it. He catches my fingers before I can touch though. 

“You are drunk, Potter.” 

He studies my fingers for a moment before gently dropping my hand. My arm flops uselessly down to my side. I’m staring up at him and my eyes are scratchy. I don’t know when I last blinked. 

“You can’t say things like that when you’re drunk.”

“Boris-“

“Potter! Is late, come on. I do not need your bullshit right now.” 

I couldn’t find the will to argue with him then. And anyway, Boris was nearly impossible to sway once he’d made his mind up. If we were going to bed, we were going to bed.

He stood up. He was steadier on his feet then I thought he should be. I had to be pulled up, and even then I stumbled into him. He laughed quietly and I could feel his breath on my ear. 

“Come now, I do not need to drag you off the street tonight. Let us sleep before you decide again you want to die.” 

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I follow him anyway. We stumble up the stairs; me leaning heavily into his side and him letting out barks of laughter every time I trip. 

When we collapse into my little bed with our legs overlapping I think of the pillowcase behind my headboard and the mirror image scattered across my body. 

“Do you have soulmarks?” I ask suddenly. 

I can tell I’ve surprised him by the way his fingers twitch where they’re pressed against mine. 

“Everyone does, yes?” He mumbles. 

I turn my head to look at him. My vision is a bit blurry, he must’ve taken my glasses off when I wasn’t paying attention. He’s staring determinedly at the ceiling and the frown from downstairs is back on his face. I don’t reach out this time. 

“But you have them? Where are they?” 

A sigh. 

“I have them.” 

He doesn’t answer my second question. 

“Have you met them?” I ask, “any of them?” 

He turns his head just enough that he can meet my eyes. 

“Don’t know.” 

I blink. I wonder if he’s seen any of mine. I don’t think so. 

“Why the questions, Potter? Sleep now.” 

He turns away from me and I’m left staring at his back for a long time before I fall asleep. 

———

There are nights I remember waking up to his soft voice shushing me and an arm around my waist. Those nights I wake up gasping with tears on my cheeks. He never says anything about the nightmares in the morning, but I can see the question in his eyes. 

_ ‘Are you okay?’  _ They seem to whisper. 

The answer is, of course, no. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I don’t know if he knows that I remember, or if he thinks it’s just another secret he keeps; like whatever happens the nights I can’t recall what I did in the morning. 

But I remember. I remember him whispering things like  _ любовь  _ and  _ дорогой _ as his arms pull me back into his skinny chest. I remember his lips on the back of my neck as he hums children’s songs. I remember how his fingers feel against my bare stomach when my shirt creeps up and his palm splays against my skin. I remember the safety there. 

I don’t talk about it in the morning partially because I’m afraid he’ll stop. I could never ask him not to, but if I say nothing it’s neither confirmation or denial. 

If I curl back into him and tangle our legs on those nights, well, I can blame that on being half asleep. 

———

During the two years we spent being reckless I split my knuckles open on many things. The wall when I was drunk and angry, the side of the pool when Boris pushed me and my knuckles scraped along it, the ground after tripping. But I split then the most times on Boris. His face, that sharp, sharp jaw and cheekbones, and his ribs the one time he nearly choked me out. But every time they broke he was there to bandage them up. Even after I’d punched him. He would press my bloody knuckles to his split lip and grin at me with red teeth. It was times like that that something burned in my stomach. Something a little like anger but not quite the same. Then he’d let go of my hand to grab the first aid kit and I’d ignore how cold my fingers felt without him touching them. 

Sometimes it was the other way around; he’d show up at my door with his cheek bleeding or bruises crawling up the sides of his ribs, and I’d be the one dragging him inside and pushing him down onto the edge of the tub. The only difference was that I never touched those marks with anything but my hands. 

I never let myself look at him for longer than necessary. I'd catch glimpses of dark lines on his hip and glance away before the image could solidify. He obviously didn't want me —or anyone— to see, so I ignored the curiosity and pretended I didn't have the placement of all three of his marks memorized. Sometimes when we were fumbling around in the total darkness of my bed I’d purposefully drag my fingers over them just to see if he’d stop me. He always shuddered when I did, like maybe it hurt, but he never stopped me. I wondered if maybe one of his soulmates was dead (or more than one). 

Sometimes  _ I  _ would catch him staring when I took my shirt off by the pool, and I knew he'd realized that the two marks on my torso were the same. He never asked though. I don’t know if it was because he didn’t want to risk me asking about his, or because of some other unknown reason. In fact, after my first clumsy mention of them, we don’t talk about soulmates at all until he meets Kotku. 

The first time I hear of her —other than seeing her at school in passing— Boris slams his way into my room and collapses beside me on my bed. I catch a glimpse of a frown on his face before it disappears into my pillow, but when he speaks he sounds nearly giddy. 

“Potter, I am in love!”

I glance down at him. All I can see is the wild mess of his curls and a hint of his jaw.

“Love?” I ask.

“Kotku! She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen! Like movie star!” 

He turns to grin up at me. 

Something clenches in my abdomen and I wonder absently what I last ate (a sandwich) and when (only about half an hour before). But that must be what it was: hunger. Boris makes a noise and I focus back on him. He’s still grinning, but I think there’s something brittle about the edges of it. Then he smirks and it's gone.

“Nothing clever to say, Potter?”

I roll my eyes and glare at him. He only raises an eyebrow at me. I let out an annoyed huff of breath, but the tightness in my chest still doesn’t go away. Instead of replying and encouraging him I look back to the chapter I was reading in my textbook and stare at the words until my eyes blur. There’s the sound of sheets rustling but I don’t look away from the passage in the textbook that I’ve probably read ten times now. I can’t seem to move on though; I stare blankly at the page until I feel a hand on my arm. 

Boris looks worried when I finally meet his eyes again.    
“Potter? Are you alright?” he asks.

I blink at him and somehow manage a smile. It pulls weirdly at the corners of my mouth, but it’ll have to do. 

“I’m fine, asshole. I’m trying to study.” I say, shaking my book a little. 

He doesn’t look convinced, but he settles back down into my pillows. His hand doesn’t leave my arm. I want to shake him off, yell ‘ _ I’m not like that!’ _ but the pads of his fingers are warm against the skin of my inner forearm and I can’t make my mouth form the words. His curls catch in his eyelashes when he blinks and he looks ghostly against my white sheets. I tear my eyes away after a moment and when I do his hand tightens almost painfully. I feel the lump in my chest loosen when he strokes his fingers apologetically over the thin skin after I flinch. He doesn’t bring her up again that night, just lays silently beside me while I work and keeps his hand tight around my arm. I don’t remember feeling grateful for his silence, but I should have been. Kotku was all he talked about after that. 

He said they were soulmates, that their little images matched and he was sure that she was his true love, the one for the rest of his life. I never thought that it was very like him to be proclaiming this so loudly, but then again I suppose I’d never thought of what he’d be like when he was in love. If I had though, I would have thought he’d be more quiet about it. It would’ve been something known only to him and his partner. But it wasn’t, and every time he collapsed beside me and started waxing poetic about her in his halting English —and some other languages I couldn’t understand— I felt something squeezing in my throat. Maybe it was just jealousy that he had found his soulmate, or that she was taking away so much of his time and thoughts, but any time he mentioned her I had to look away. Our time together dwindles and sometimes I go whole days without seeing him any time but English. If Boris notices my growing hatred of Kotku he ignores it. Sometimes he shows up at my door flushed and grinning with his hair stuck to his forehead and his pupils wide. Words of praise fall from his lips those nights, and it feels like acid dripping onto my skin. I pull him upstairs anyway, him giggling quietly when he has to lean into my side to stay standing. He always curls up too close, and even though I protest his sweaty skin and his hair in my mouth I always let him stay. 

“She’s wonderful, Potter.” He mumbles against my neck one night, and I can’t stop the horrible surge of bitterness in my chest.

_ ‘Then why don’t you stay with her!’ _ I want to scream, but I say nothing, just stare at the ceiling until his breath goes soft and deep against my skin. Then I wriggle away and go to find something that will help erase the way his lips had felt against my shoulder when they shaped her name. 

\------

I leave. Boris doesn’t follow. 

I don’t cry, no matter how much I want to. You don’t cry over promises you never should have believed in the first place. It was foolish of me to think —even for a second— that maybe someone would leave their soulmate behind. I don’t let myself think of Vegas at all. I most definitely don’t think about the way Boris had kissed me before I got into a taxi; like it was the last thing he’d ever do. I don’t think about how pale his wrists had looked without his bracelets on, and the smudge of darkness on the inside of his left wrist. If I slip up and let the memories come, I sometimes wish I’d looked closer. With his hands clutching my cheeks I’d been so close to his soulmark. I could’ve looked. I don’t know what I wanted to see, a mark that was surely Kotku’s? Proof that he’d had a reason to stay in Vegas? 

But I didn’t look and I doubt I’d ever have the chance to look. So I don’t think about it, and if I do, I take enough of my stolen pills that I pass out. Hobie doesn’t mention my messy hair or the shaking of my fingers the morning after those nights, but I know he notices. 

Weeks pass and I find myself waking up like that more and more often. Sometimes I wake up and don’t remember the day before at all. Months start to blur together, and Hobie starts giving me worried looks. At this point, I don’t know how to stop. Any time I’m sober I’m overwhelmed; I just need it all to be quiet. So I spend my years of school in a haze. The only time I feel even remotely alive is when I’m in the Conversational Russian class I couldn’t stop myself from taking. Every word sends pain shooting through my chest, but at least it’s something more than emptiness. 

It gets a little better once I start helping with the shop, but mostly I spend eight years just drifting through my life. Always afraid but unable to feel it through the drugs. Always lonely, but refusing to admit who it was I really needed. I filled any free time I might have had with Kitsey and Hobie and anyone who would distract me so I didn’t have to think about the painting (or him).

Then he’s standing on a street corner, my name hanging in the air between us and his eyes are dark, dark, dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy you guys liked the first chapter! It was so great to see the love <3  
Here's the second one. I've stayed true to the basic plot but stuff is different! Partially because I'm lazy and I don't want to go and reread every scene so it matches, and partially because I don't like rewriting scenes? It's a different story, things happen differently.  
Anyway! I hope you enjoy this one just as much!  
The tumblr post is [Here](https://iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com/post/188965552147/ive-got-the-story-of-us-written-on-my-skin) it would be cool if you reblogged it :)

He’s exactly like I remember, and not at all the same. He talks the same way, already broken English tripping over itself to escape his mouth, but his teeth are American-straight and white enough that they’re almost distracting. His hair is still wild, but it looks purposeful now. Not like he’d just woken up after a night of my– 

His clothes are nice. That’s the surprising part. He’s dressed in brands I recognized from my own closet, and they actually fit him. He’s still taller than me, but not by much, and it could be the heels on his boots. He looks better than I ever remember seeing him and I’m afraid he’s going to notice that I haven’t heard a word he’s said since we started walking together. Everything is coming back. New York is bright in a way I haven’t seen since I was twelve, casting shadows under his cheekbones and lighting up his curls with red and blue. He turns toward me —I just stop myself from jerking away, I’m caught— and his eyes are shining in the fluorescent lights. 

“Potter!” He exclaims softly, and it sounds like summer days spent laying around because it was too hot to do anything else. 

“I can not believe you are here!” 

I look away, there’s something in his eyes I can’t stand to see. 

“I live here, Boris,” I mumble, feeling like I’m thirteen and seeing him for the first time. 

“But here! With me.”

His hand is on my arm then, warm even through three layers of clothing. Maybe I’m just imagining it. I look back to him and I’m startled by the openness of his face.

“Was sure you would not want to see me again,” he says.

I frown.  
“You were the one who stopped answering your phone.”

Boris looks away and fixes his eyes on the pavement passing under our feet. His hand tightens around my arm and I have to stop myself from reaching up to cup his fingers. 

“I was not sure you would want to hear from me,” he mumbles, looking exactly as he did eight years ago while begging me to stay. 

“Why would I not want to hear from you?” 

“You know why, Potter, do not make me say it here.”

I genuinely don’t know what he’s talking about and it must show on my face when he finally looks back at me. There’s blank shock spreading across his face and the grip on my arm slackens. It would be funny, the way his eyes widen and his mouth falls open a little —showing off his shiny white teeth that are still startling every time I look at him— if fear wasn’t crawling up my throat. 

“Boris, why did you think I wouldn’t want to talk to you,” I plead, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. 

Boris lets his hand fall away from my arm when he turns to face me. His face is even more pale than usual and for the first time since I’d smiled at him from a few feet away he looks nervous. 

“Not here.”

A strangled laugh escapes his lips and he shakes his head.

“All these years, Potter, and you never looked?” He asks in disbelief.

I feel my face scrunch in confusion and I open my mouth to ask what exactly he means, but before I can say anything he’s walking away. I stand in shock for a moment before my body catches up with my brain and I hurry after him. The streetlights illuminate his hair in short periods and highlight the collar of his coat where his curls spill against the fabric. He doesn’t seem to want to look at me. 

Eventually, we duck into a small restaurant. It’s almost swelteringly hot inside, but the hostess takes one look at Boris and sends us into a little room in the back. Not for the first time, I wonder what exactly Boris has gotten himself mixed up in. 

“How does she know you?” I ask quietly once we’ve sat down. 

I lean forward onto my elbows, clutching my hands together in front of me. I suddenly don’t want to hear what he needs to tell me.

He grins at me; a quick thing that reminds me of my first taste of alcohol and also of being nearly drowned in my own pool. It’s a grin I didn’t think I’d missed —it had only meant bad decisions— but I apparently had, if the warmth that filled me at seeing it was any indication. Everything about seeing Boris made me remember adrenaline in my veins in the sweltering heat and nights spent with secrets pressed against the back of my neck. I’d forgotten what it was like not to miss him. 

“This place. Is mine,” he replies. 

I blink at him, not sure if he means what I think he does or if this is just a strange translation of what he really means. 

“You own-?” 

“Yes.”

He must find the look on my face funny because he lets out a loud ‘Ha!’ before his mouth goes tense and serious again. 

“Theo,” He hesitates (my name sounds strange in his mouth), “Do you remember showing me your painting?” 

I swear my heart stops. I don’t breath for what feels like hours but is really only a couple seconds. He stares at me, and I think if he was capable of fear he would look scared. 

“Painting?” I gasp finally. 

“Your little bird.”

I realize I’m clenching my hands so tight my nails feel like they’re about to pierce my skin. I can’t relax though, not when Boris is sitting across from me with his own arms stiff by his sides. He looks ready to bolt if I say the wrong thing. I can’t make myself speak. I don’t remember what night —because it must’ve been night— I showed him and of course Boris can read that in my eyes. He’s always known me better than I know myself. 

“Of course you do not remember,” he says and it sounds bitter for some reason. 

“I showed you?” my voice rises in panic.

Boris reaches over the table as if he’s going to touch my hand but I jerk away. There’s hurt in his eyes for a second before he blinks and they go forcibly blank. 

“There are many nights you don’t remember,” he mumbles.

The room is still stiflingly hot, I want to shrug off my coat but it feels too permanent. Like I’m planning on staying. Right now I definitely am not. If Boris doesn’t explain what he means soon I’m leaving. 

“You took it out of its pillowcase one night; ran down the stairs all excited to show me your precious painting! Could hardly believe my eyes! I had thought you were wrong, surely, it could not have been real. But it was.” 

I’m stunned to silence, Boris keeps rambling.

“I’m sorry, Theo, truely. I did not mean to keep it. I certainly didn’t mean for this to happen!”

“For what to happen?” I interrupt just as he’s about to babble on (my real name again). 

He looks at me strangely.

“Have you not seen the news, Potter?” 

I suddenly remember. I’d seen the article a couple of weeks ago and immediately dismissed it because the painting was safe in my storage locker.

“You lost it?” I say, too loudly.

Boris grimaces.

“Yes.”

I can’t sit here anymore, I stand and hit my legs on the table in my haste. 

“I have to go.” 

Boris stands as well, more gracefully then I could ever hope to be, and steps toward me. His face twists sadly when I move away from his outstretched hand.

“I will find you tomorrow,” he says.

He steps away from me and folds his hands in front of his body. It looks wrong on him; too contained. Boris has been wild and dangerous for as long as I’ve known him, and right now he seems unthreatening in every way. I don’t tell him this (there’s a lot I never say to him) and instead, I turn and walk quickly out the door. 

I don’t realize that I hadn’t said goodbye until I’m several blocks away. 

———

I also don’t realize that I hadn’t expected Boris to actually come until it’s the next morning and I haven’t slept; too busy having the entire center of my world for the last eight years come crashing down in the form of a newspaper-wrapped textbook with Boris’ name scrawled all over it. He knocks, and Hobie must answer the door because it’s only a couple of minutes before there’s pounding on the stairs and then his flushed face peers through my doorway. 

“You believe me now?” He asks quietly.

I look down at the textbook in my hands silently.

“Why did you take it?” I whisper. 

Boris steps into the room, his eyes are sad. 

“I am a thief,” he replies quietly, “I wanted, I took it.”

I can tell that’s not the only reason, but I don’t push him. I’m not sure I would like the answers.

“Why are you here.”

Boris sinks down to the floor in front of me but doesn’t meet my eyes. 

“I wanted to tell you.”

“That you’d lost it?” I exclaim, “why would I want to know that?”

Boris’s fingers are white at the knuckles where he’s squeezing them together. 

“I thought you knew.”

None of this makes sense. I don’t want to see his face anymore. He’s too much like I remember and not at all the same. He just uprooted my life.

“You need to go.”  
“Theo-”

“Please, Boris.”

He seems startled by the exhaustion in my voice. He blinks at me for a long moment before blinking and nodding jerkily. 

“I see.”

He stands up and nods again, almost to himself. 

“I will…” He trails off like he’s unsure what he was even going to say in the first place, like he was just talking to talk.

“Goodbye,” I say, cutting off any confessions or promises I wasn’t ready to hear.

“Yes. Goodbye.”

He disappears through my open door, taking all the air from the room with him. 

———

My engagement party is dull. There are cameras and too many people and even though it’s been nearly a week I can still feel the weight of Boris’ eyes on me. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen by him. To be seen at all. Kitsey looks beautiful, but in a cold way. She’s far too good for me. At least she knows that.

She also knows that her mother would never approve of her actual soulmate and I, with my possibly non-existent one, was the perfect candidate for a fake relationship that would have the added benefit of making her mother happy. It didn’t start that way, but I’d always known we’d never really be meant for each other. I wasn’t even surprised or too sad when I saw her with Tom. 

She’d cried when I asked her about it and I hadn’t known how to tell her that it was alright. That I’d known from the moment she’d kissed me —before she’d seen my marks but after I’d seen one of hers— that we were doomed. I hadn’t cared, of course, sometimes I didn’t think I cared much about anything. 

“Theo?” Kitsey asks, and I remember that we’re supposed to be making our rounds. 

“I’m here.”

She frowns at me but doesn’t push, which is maybe why I love her a little bit. She puts her arm in mine and we make our way into the crowd. I know Hobie is standing in the corner somewhere and I just hope that Pippa is able to stop him from talking the other guests’ ears off about the furniture. The evening goes by horrifically slowly; no one has anything interesting to say, and I find myself getting jumpy about an hour into it. It feels like there are eyes on me everywhere. 

I find myself sweeping the room looking for something amiss and I almost skip over him. Almost.

He’s standing by the door in a long black coat. His cheeks are flushed red with cold and his hair is messy but he’s still attracting interested stares; maybe it’s because of all those things. 

He smiles when he sees me already looking at him. I can see the white of his teeth from all the way across the room. 

Kitsey squeezes my arm and I’m jolted back into my body. My arm had gone limp when I saw him and she’s looking at me with a worried expression.

“Are you alright? You’ve been acting very strange tonight, Theo.”

I hate that I’m letting her down, but I’m distracted now. He’s here. Why is he here? 

Like I’ve summoned him, he’s there on the other side of me. He’s grinning. 

“You must be Kitsey,” he says, his accent thick around her name, but not as bad as when he says mine.

She’s startled and confused but most people wouldn’t be able to tell; her smile is warm and when she takes his hand to shake it and gets a kiss instead she doesn’t falter. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name!” she giggles (I’ve never heard her giggle).

“Theo hasn’t told you of me?” Boris asks with a charming grin (Fake! My head screams), “I’m Boris.”

Kitsey smiles wider and laughs.  
“He must’ve forgotten, I’m sorry.”

I can’t speak.

There’s a flash of something across Boris’ face, but the smile is back before I can figure it out. I wonder how I can still read his face so easily after eight years. 

“I need to talk with him for a moment, if that is alright with you?” Boris asks.

Kitsey smile at me and lets go of my arm.

“I’m going to go say hello to my mother, come find me after?”

I nod blankly, and there’s a flicker of concern over her face but she just kisses my cheek and turns back to Boris.

“Watch him for me?” she jokes.

Boris laughs loudly, attracting attention. My hand twitches at my side. 

“Of course.”

She walks away. The click-clack of her heels jolts me out of my daze and I’m abruptly angry.

“Why are you here, Boris.” 

He doesn’t look surprised at my venomous tone, he just grabs my arm and drags me to the wall. 

“I have found your painting, Potter,” he whispers excitedly, “we are flying to Amsterdam tonight.”

“Boris! Tonight?” 

He’s practically beaming at me as he nods, like this is something I can do, something I want to do. Don’t I though? Doesn’t that sound like the most reasonable thing I’ve heard all night? Boris burns so bright and maybe I find myself wanting just a little of it for myself. For once I don’t feel like it would be hard to be what someone wanted me to be. Warmth spreads through my arms where he’s grabbed a hold of them in his excitement, setting my chest alight. 

“What do you say we leave now?” Boris asks, tugging at my sleeves.

“Kitsey-”

“Forget her,” he interrupts, his eyes flashing.

The fire spreads.

“I should at least say goodbye to Hobie.”

Boris nods and strides off confidently. I can’t do anything but follow. 

He leads us straight to Hobie and Pippa with frightening accuracy. They both stare at him as he gets near before their eyes shift to me.  
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon,” Hobie says neutrally. 

I can tell he’s confused. Pippa is staring between us with narrowed eyes. I shrink back from her gaze. I’d gotten over my infatuation sometime between leaving New York the first time, and meeting the person that shared her mark. I don’t know when (I do), but still the knowledge that she’d seen me in such a pathetic state drives me to embarrassment whenever she looks too closely. Boris is unruffled by their scrutiny.

“That? Tiny fight, no harm.” 

I roll my eyes. 

“I have to go,” I interject before anyone else can say anything.

Hobie looks shocked, and a little confused, Pippa looks like she’d just had an epiphany. 

“Theo, it’s your engagement party.”

Pippa wraps her arm through Hobie’s and leans toward him. I don’t know what she whispers to him, but when Hobie looks back at us there’s something hidden in the depths of his eyes. 

“I’ll tell Kitsey where you went,” he says. 

He doesn’t ask where we’re going.

Boris smiles at them and then grabs my wrist to pull me away. Pippa smirks at me, I don’t know why. She looks smug. I can feel her eyes on me all the way out the door. 

Boris lets go of my wrist when we stumble out the door and the cold air startles me out of my stupor. 

“Why are you taking me with you?” I ask, tripping over my feet to catch up with his long strides. 

Boris walks like he’s constantly late; his long coat billows out behind him and his boots make an anxious clacking on the sidewalk. 

“I need you,” he answers shortly.

I look over at him. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“What for?”

He sighs and cranes his neck like he’s looking for something before he abruptly stops and drags me across the street. He doesn’t even check to see if there’s anyone coming. My question is forgotten in my annoyance. 

“You can’t just run across the street in New York, Boris!” I yell and yank my wrist from his grasp.

He sighs and turns to face me, finally. The happiness from inside is gone from his eyes and he mostly looks defeated.

“My car is here,” he says shortly and gestures to the sleek black car we’re standing beside. 

I don’t know how to respond to his tired tone. I’ve never seen Boris less than hyperactive. He pulls the door open and gestures inside.

“Where are we going?” I ask, but I’m already sliding past him into the backseat. 

An intimidatingly broad and tall —even sitting— man turns around to grin at me from the drivers seat. I force a smile in return. I’m sure I look more scared than anything. 

“You must be Theo!” The man exclaims, “Boris talks of you all the time.”

I’m distracted from the implications of that by Boris shoving me over. He crawls into the car and flops down on the seat where I had been sitting. His hair is messy and he looks closer to the Boris I remember then he has since he showed up here. There’s a lightness in his eyes when he looks at the driver that I don’t think I’ve ever seen though. 

“Do not go spreading lies, Gyruri,” he says, grinning.

The man laughs and then winks at me through the rearview mirror. I look away quickly and find myself staring out the window. I can’t bring myself to look at Boris even though his constant shifting beside me is distracting. 

“We will stop at your shop first.”

I glance over, he’s staring straight at me.  
“You will need your passport; also as much cash as you have,” he’s strangely serious.

I can only nod. 

“We’re on the same flight to Amsterdam together, it was all I could get- short notice,” he continues, like I’m going to be angry with him. 

I can’t even remember my anger from earlier; it seems distant and unreal, like with the promise of a wild adventure he’s shook all the fight from me. It seems silly to be mad with him about something he did eight years ago. Especially when I have him in front of me looking like some sort of painting in the streetlights whizzing past. I hadn’t even noticed we’d started moving. 

Boris doesn’t comment on my staring, but his hands fiddle with the cuffs of his jacket. He doesn’t wear bracelets anymore, and the sleeves are smooth against his wrists. This was why I hadn’t looked at him in the first place, now I had started I couldn’t stop. 

“Stop staring, Potter, you saw me just the other day,” he whispers.

New York speeds by behind him and now he’s the one who won’t meet my eyes. Red neon flickers across the high cut of his cheekbones and halos his hair in red. I feel my fingers twitch against my thigh. I blink and look away. There’s an audible sigh —of relief?— from beside me and I catch his hands relaxing out of the corner of my eye. 

We don’t speak the rest of the way to the store and I catch the driver’s —Gyruri’s?— confused expression in the mirror several times. 

We pull up in front of the store abruptly and I feel myself move automatically to unbuckle my seatbelt before realizing that in my distraction I’d forgotten to do it up at all. Boris doesn’t move to get out of the car so I slide out my side and shut the door behind me. 

It’s strange to walk into the store when it’s empty. The hallways are dark and quiet. I make my way up to my room and step over the mess of wrapping paper still in a pile by the end of my bed. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I’ve just found my passport and am about to leave my room to look for cash when I hear the door downstairs open.

“Potter?” 

It’s Boris, because of course it is. I stop in my doorway. He makes his way up the stairs and stops at the top. His eyes are unreadable in the darkness of the hallway. The only light comes from my bedroom behind me, I hadn’t bothered to turn on any other ones. After a moment he steps toward me. His posture is hunched slightly, like he’s about to deliver some bad news. 

“Boris?” I call when he stops and he’s still half the hallway away from me. 

He tugs the sleeves of his jacket down his arms farther. 

“Did you find what we need?” he asks finally. 

His voice is very quiet. 

I hold up the passport in my hand silently and then step toward him. He doesn’t move when I get closer, but there’s a tension in his body that I want to smooth away. It brings back vague memories of the harsh Vegas lights making the frown lines on his face seem like craters. I’d wanted to sooth those as well. I stop well within his personal space, I could touch him if I lifted my hand just a little. We’re nearly the same hight now, I don’t have to look up to meet his eyes. He’s silent, a strange thing for him. Even his breathing is shallow. We stand there for an unmeasurable amount of time; I don’t know why. All I know is that my chest aches like it hasn’t since the night I left Vegas and my fingers itch to wrap around his newly bare wrist. Boris looks like he did on that curb; like there’s something he needs to say. 

The moment is broken by a whining noise from down the hall and a scratching. 

Boris looks away first with a shaky exhale. 

“Was that?” he starts.

I watch him when I speak.

“Would you like to say hello to Popchyk?” I ask quietly.

Boris lights up. 

“Can I?”

I can only nod. Boris has to brush past me to reach the room we shut Popchyk in when we go out. He’s warm. I look down at my shoes and then close my eyes. I can hear Popchyk’s excited yapping behind me and the Boris’ excited voice babbling about how long it’s been.

When I turn around Boris is laying on the ground with the dog on his chest and he’s laughing brightly. 

His eyes are scrunched closed and he looks untouchably soft in the dim lighting trying to stop my dog from covering his face in slobber. His long coat is definitely getting wrinkled under him but Boris doesn’t seem to care. I feel strange standing so far away from them. I want to go over, but I can’t make myself move. I don’t belong there anymore —beside Boris— it’s not as simple for me to fit myself back into his life as it is for my dog. I can’t go back to being fifteen, no matter how much I want to. I don’t even know if I do want to. I leave them to their reunion and head down the stairs to the till in the front. There’s easily fifteen thousand dollars in the lockbox and I grab it all. I wait by the door for Boris. 

He descends the stairs a few minutes later with a small smile still on his face. He stops at the bottom when he sees me standing in the shadows. 

“I did not know where you had gone.”

He sounds sad, even with the smile still curling his lips. 

“Did you not want to say goodbye?” He sounds like he’s asking a different question. 

“I thought you might want to have a moment alone with him,” I mutter.

Boris looks away from me for a moment. When he looks back there’s a set to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

“I always want you there,” he says quietly. 

I’m not quite sure what to do with that confession.

“You sure have a funny way of showing that,” I spit out, not meaning any of the venom but unable to say what I really want to.

(Then why did you let me go alone. Why did you never come to me.)

I knew the answer to those questions anyway. The marks on his skin would’ve never let him leave, and mine would never make him stay.

Boris flinches. I don’t wait to see what he’d say, I just open the door and go before my face can betray me. 

He slips into the car beside me a few minutes later. He looks like he wants to say something, but when he catches my gaze he just swallows and turns to look out the window. 

The tension hovers in the air between us all the way to the plane. My eyes burn horribly in the dry air of the plane and we still haven’t spoke beyond a yes or no. Boris closes his eyes as soon as the plane lifts off. I stay awake until my eyes are scratchy and dry from staring at him while trying not to stare at him. But eventually I can’t stay awake any longer and my eyes slip closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me about them!  
iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this took so long, I don't really have an excuse other then I got distracted.  
But here I am! with a few thousand more words!  
I know this doesn't exactly follow either the book or the movie, but we vibing babey. that said. some of the lines are taken almost directly from the book bc they're iconic or I go feral.  
I was so happy with all the love and I’m hoping you aren’t all tired of waiting. But thank you. I means the world to me  
anyway, here's more boys being stupid; I hope it was worth the wait!

I wake up leaning on something warm. 

There’s something tickling my cheek, my nose is squished against something hard, and my glasses are digging into my face, but somehow I’m comfortable. As I wake up more I realize that my pillow is moving slightly. It gives a particularly startling jolt and I grumble. It goes stiff under my cheek. 

“Potter?” 

I blink my eyes open to see mostly darkness. Hair gets caught in my eyes and I pull back. 

“Boris?” 

He’s watching me carefully, his dark eyes hesitant. I drag my hand over my face to get rid of the lingering feeling of hair on my skin. I must’ve leaned on him as I slept. Honestly, I was surprised he’d let me. 

“Good sleep?” 

His voice goes quiet at the end, unsure. I hum in response and look away awkwardly, the reality of my actions finally filtering into my sleep-sluggish brain. 

“Are we nearly there?” I ask instead of confronting whatever is burning in my chest.

Boris’ voice is less hesitant when he replies. 

“No- have only been in the air four hours.” 

I groan and roll my neck. It’s stiff from the odd position I was in and I’m sure I look ridiculous with lines all over my face. 

“Can I ask you something, Potter?” Boris mumbles after a moment of tense silence. 

I shrug but don’t meet his eyes. 

“Why did you never look at your painting?”

How can I explain that it reminded me of things I didn’t want to feel? I could hardly tell him of the things I’d wished my marks could mean, especially when I wouldn’t even allow myself to think of it. I couldn’t say of how it no longer reminded me of my mother, but that it was his dusty curls and dark eyes that I saw reflected back at me. Another way my skin had failed me. 

“It was risky,” I decide upon. 

It’s not really a lie. It was risky. For obvious reasons and for ones he’d never know. 

His eyes are dark on me when I look up from my hands.

“You did not seem to care in Vegas.”

Something clenches in my chest, like a hand squeezing my lungs.

“I was out of my mind in Vegas,” I mumble.

He just looks at me.

“Because you are not now?”

I don’t have any more excuses. What exactly I’m making excuses for, I don’t know. I look away. 

“Potter, that bird was everything to you.” 

I sigh and tip my head back against the chair. I can hardly tell him that I have three copies of it to look at if I really wanted to, and that the painting itself carried more memories. And I didn’t want the memories that were locked in it now. I stay silent.

I can feel his eyes on me for a long minute before he seems to give up on getting an answer. 

“No matter, can not change past,” he says, something wistful in his voice.

“We have another two hours before landing, perhaps a drink?” 

I can do that. 

\-----

When we get off the plane a few hours later we’re both a little tipsy. Boris is giving me strange looks out of the corner of his eye. We’re giggling a little over something I don’t remember while we wait for our luggage. The other passengers were nearly glaring at us, but that just made me laugh harder. The security guards watched us closer than everyone else. If only they knew what we were here for.

Boris’ shoulder presses against mine as he points to my bag on the carousel. 

“There, Potter! Quick!” 

I manage to get my feet to cooperate enough to drag the bag off the carousel and wheel it over to where Boris is. He gestures toward the door and then tugs at his sleeves as we walk outside. The outside air is cool and I breathe it in with a sense of relief. Some of the heat seeps out of my cheeks. Boris leads me quickly over to a black van. I raise my eyebrow at him. 

“This is all very suspicious, Boris,” I joke. 

He smiles back, the corner of his mouth curving in the way it did before he would grab an item off the shelf quickly. 

“You think I would kidnap you, Potter?” 

I laugh, relieved that we can still talk like this. 

“You obviously wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

He looks delighted. 

“Ha!”

The large man from yesterday steps out of the van when we approach (he’d taken a plane immediately after getting to the airport, we’d had to wait). He looks happy to see me. 

“Theo! Boris has told you his crazy plan?” 

I’m reminded why we’re here. 

“Oh.”

Boris doesn’t meet my eyes when I look over at him.    
“Uh, not yet,” I answer finally. 

“Well, let us get going so you can’t get on the next flight back,” the man booms. 

I feel my chest clench and I look over to where Boris is glaring at the man (Gyrur?). 

“It is not such a terrible plan, Gyuri,” he mumbles sullenly. 

Again there is his booming laugh.    
“You are a crazy man, Borya, but the plan may work.”

Boris huffs and nudges me toward the car. 

“Let’s go, Potter,” he whispers. 

I shuffle into the car hesitantly.

We drive in silence. I want to ask what exactly is happening, or at least where we’re going, but it feels rude to speak when Boris is obviously trying to avoid it.    
We finally pull up in front of a small hotel, obviously owned by a family and not a major chain. The inside is fancier then I was expecting —knowing Boris— but it still made me feel strangely at home. Perhaps it was the feeling of age, the same as every piece in Hobie’s shop. I catch Boris looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He looks away when I turn toward him and clears his throat.    
“A lot like your shop, yes?”

I feel something clench in my chest and look away.

“It’s not my shop,” I mumble.

He laughs lightly, “Practically is, Potter, and you know it.”

I don’t really have any way to deny that, but I don’t want to admit he’s right so I just fix my eyes on the front desk.

“Mr. Pavlikovsky, I assume?” the receptionist asks when we make it there.

He’s looking at me as he says it  —I don’t know why, I don’t look even remotely like that name fits me— which sends heat rushing up my cheeks, but Boris doesn’t seem to notice; he just grins.    
“That would be me,” he announces, pulling out his (probably fake) I.D.

“Ah,” the man hums, “your room keys, sirs.” 

Boris flips the keys in his hand and then offers one to me. There are only two sets. 

“Where is Gyuri sleeping?” I ask before I can stop myself.    
“Ha! In my room of course! Two beds, Potter. Won’t pay for three rooms when we have done this many times!” 

I don’t ask what that means, I don’t need to know. 

The rooms are beside each other, and we reach mine first. I stand outside it awkwardly for a moment trying to fit the key into the lock; the mechanism is old and sticky. When I finally get it open I turn around and meet Boris’ eyes. Gyuri is nowhere to be seen, he must have gone ahead. The light from the old-fashioned sconces on the wall make him look softer than he should. He touches my shoulder and it burns. 

“Have a nap, Potter, I will explain the plan later.” 

I nod slowly. There’s something hypnotizing about him in this hallway. No one knows us here- his hand on my arm that I can feel through the three layers I’m wearing- I take a slightly shaky breath when he looks at me in concern. I need to stop looking at him soon. 

“Theo?” 

My real name, the T pronounced harshly in his accent.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asks.

“I- yes,” I mumble, shaking my head a little to clear the strange thoughts from it. 

“Really, nothing to worry about today, you’ll see!” Boris smiles, not really reassuring me.

I nod again, not sure what would come out of my mouth if I opened it. 

“I will see you in a few hours, Potter.”

“Yeah,” I breathe.

He steps back and smiles at me one more time, adjusting his sleeves. 

“Is good to have you back. Like old times!”

I don’t say that he could have followed me, he already knows. Anyway, you can’t change the past, even if I can’t help but wonder where we’d be if he had. Probably not in a hotel in Amsterdam. 

He strides down the hallway purposefully, and the door opens before he can even knock. I watch until it closes behind him with a thud. 

\------

I wake up to a knocking on the door. 

Boris is on the other side, wearing a smile and a coat that looks horribly expensive. He pushes his way into my room and stares critically at me. I frown down at my clothes, I know they’re wrinkled but really, he’s looking at me like this isn’t a hundred dollar shirt.

“You are in desperate need of a shower my friend,” he says finally and laughs at whatever expression my face must make. 

“How are you supposed to look like a filthy rich American in clothes that you have slept in!” he asks, still laughing.

There’s not really much to say to that, and I shower without much fight- I was going to anyway. I’m strangely aware of the fact that he’s just feet away from me as I shower; that if I’d wanted to I could call for him and he’d answer. I catch the mark on my finger out of the corner of my eye and stare at it for a moment. I remember suddenly the time Boris had met my eyes as he left smears of blood across it. I scrub myself off very quickly after that. 

Boris is sitting on my bed when I walk out of the bathroom, still buttoning my shirt. His eyes catch on my still-wet hair that sticks to my forehead before he smiles. 

“Much better! You look like a real person now.”

It’s easy to laugh with him. 

“I suppose we should tell you the plan tonight,” he continues after a second, and it’s only then that I realize Gyuri is there as well, standing quiet in the corner. 

I nod, suddenly awkward. 

“Shirley has set you up as some up and coming American art collector- very rich, not extremely bright-” here, he pauses, “me and Gyuri, we will come as bodyguards. You do not have to do much, Potter. They will not expect you to talk- that will be Gyuri’s job- we are just lucky I am able to come. There will not be anyone there to recognize me. It should all take only five minutes, really! They will expect money- that is why you brought the cash… of course, if all goes well we will not lose the money- but even if it does not! We still win! We will get your bird back either way!” He looks immensely pleased after this winding explanation. 

I blink. 

“Now go get your hair dried and your coat on- is showtime in a little over two hours!”

There isn’t anything else I can do but obey, I know I will never get a better explanation from Boris. He’s been this way since we were kids. I stop dead in the doorway when I come out. 

“Boris,” I say, “what the motherfuck.”

He looks up from the innards of the gun he’s checking over.

“Oh, this?” he starts, waving the gun, I flinch,”Is nothing! For show!”

“Boris!” 

“You should not be concerned, Potter. Really, is just silly to not have one, that would be a red flag to them!” he exclaims, like I should know this already. 

“That’s a gun!” 

“Yes?”

Gyuri laughs from the corner, and I look over to see him also holding a handgun.

“No worries, Potter. We will be fine,” he rumbles.

“See! If Gyuri says it is okay, all will be fine.”

I don’t feel reassured, but I’m too far into this to back out now, so I follow them reluctantly to the car. 

\------

The meeting place is a restaurant, which I can’t help but find funny for some reason. I stifle a nervous smile as I walk in, 20,000$ in a duffle bag on one arm and my other fingers clutching a banknote in my pocket. Boris strides along confidently on my left side. 

“Where is the painting,” Gyuri asks nearly before we stop walking.

The three men across from us don’t look that intimidating, the man in the center is short and weedy, with sweat beading on his upper lip. Something in me recoils even so. 

The man gestures behind him.

“The money?”

I hand the bag over to one of the other men. Boris shuffles beside me and I reflectively clench my fingers. 

_ Oh. The banknote. _

I hand that over as well. 

There’s a sudden movement from the third man and then suddenly everything is chaos. I can’t do anything but stand there as I watch Boris pull his gun from his hip and take two shots in quick succession, Gyuri doing the same on my other side. More shots ring muffled from outside and I flinch. 

“You are a foolish man, and a  _ трус _ ,” Boris spits at the weedy man, who is cowering on the floor. 

I remember just enough from 15 and the conversational Russian class I took to know that word:  _ coward _ . 

Gyuri crosses the room and disappears through the door at the back. Two more shots ring out and both me and Boris watch the door nervously until Gyuri comes back through it. Boris’ attention goes back to the man on the floor. 

“If I ever hear of you again there will be trouble,” Boris hisses. 

He looks at Gyuri, who nods. He’s holding a sturdy hardshell case. I stare. I know what must be in there, and I need something to focus on other than the dead men at my feet. 

“Is that?” I ask, looking over at Boris.

His smile is enough of an answer. 

\------

Boris leaves the last man curled up on the floor. I take one last look behind us as we leave and there’s a quick flash of movement through the second door, but I think I must have imagined it. All I can focus on is the case in Gyuri’s arms. 

We drive to a parkade about fifteen minutes away, and are joined very quickly by the rest of Boris’ team. They are all smiling, or at least look happy. 

“You should all celebrate!” Boris cheers, gripping them one by one by the shoulders. 

“Will you join us, Borya?” The one I think is called Victor asks. 

“Ah yes! Me and Potter both! But go ahead my friends, we will follow in a minute. Take the cash! Buy a drink!” he exclaims, exuberant in his happiness. 

I’m not sure if he is just happy to hold the painting again, or if he feels like he has finally righted a wrong that he did years ago, even if I had no idea.

He turns to me once they have all left and smiles a softer smile than the one he had given them.

“Shall we look, Potter?” he asks me quietly. 

I step closer and nod. 

It is as beautiful as I remember —the brushstrokes as alive and delicate as they were eight years ago— the little bird and the tiny chain around its leg. 

“Is such trouble,” Boris says quietly and then turns to look at me. Our faces are very close.

“But worth it, yes?”

I take a shallow breath, not sure if we’re talking about the painting anymore (not that I know what else we’d be talking about), and am about to speak when I’m interrupted by a shout. 

“Boris! I knew it would be you!” a man calls cockily.

Boris stiffens beside me and steps so that he’s standing in front of me. 

“Close the case,” he whispers.

“Ah! What brings you here tonight?” he calls a second later. 

“You stole from us,” the man replies.

“That is not how I remember it.”

He snarls, but Boris stays firmly in front of me. I quickly shut the case and lock the latches. I see it immediately when I turn around: there is a gun pointing straight at Boris’ head. I freeze. 

“Hand over the painting and no one has to get hurt,” the man grinds out. 

Boris laughs, and I tense in fear.  _ Please,  _ I think,  _ please don’t be stupid. _

“It is my painting.” 

I squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Theo,” he whispers again, “when I say, you need to take the painting and run. You understand?”

I shake my head. I don’t know what’s keeping me rooted to the spot, but I know I can’t leave him here. 

“Damnit Potter, you can have your painting! Is what you want!” 

_ Not without you, _ I think, and then immediately try to forget that. Even if it was possible, I don’t feel that way about him. I do not. 

“You have until five, Boris, hand it over!”

I know the man will shoot, his hand is steady and he looks furious. I know, and I can’t leave and I can’t just stand here because Boris  _ can’t  _ die so I do the only thing I can: I reach into Boris’ pocket slowly and pull out the gun. He stiffens and everything about his posture screams  _ No! _ but he can’t stop me. 

The weight of it is intimidating in my hand, and I hate everything about it, but for five seconds, I don’t think. And then it’s chaos again. Boris grabs the gun from me as soon as the first shot goes off and shoves me to the ground. He stumbles as he straightens and I try to stand again, but he gives me a glare so powerful I just stay down and try to hide myself behind the car. 

“You couldn’t just make this easy, could you,” I hear the man’s voice say. 

I peek out and see Boris standing, hands raised, with a gun to the back of his head. Blood stains the ground all around them. I see a fallen shotgun on the ground a few feet away. Can I do it again?

“Could you!” the man shouts and I know the answer. 

_ Crack! _

My hand shakes. Boris turns to face me. We stare.  The gun falls from my hand and clatters against the concrete. I watch the blood spread to touch his shoes. 

It’s a few tense moments before either of us move, and then it’s Boris reaching to hold his arm.

“You’re hurt!” I breathe, forcefully not thinking of what just happened. 

I step toward him. He blinks down at the blood dripping sluggishly from his coat sleeve. 

“I’m fine-”   
“No, take your jacket off.”

“Theo-”

“Boris.”

His coat comes off. The bullet had left a deep gouge in his bicep and I can’t stop myself from wrapping my hand around his forearm so I can pull him closer. His fingers clench and I look down. And stare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments both feed my happiness and fuel my writing so pls tell me your thoughts even if they're just five words!  
hopefully the next chapter doesn't take as long as this one did  
you can find me here:  
Main blog:[x](https://iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com/)  
Goldfinch blog: [x](https://thegoldenfnch.tumblr.com/)  
Tumblr post:[x](https://iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com/post/188965552147/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long again! hope it's worth it!  
I really appreciated the comments on the last chapter, I don't know how I would've written this without them  
Without further ado, please enjoy

I’m silent. 

It’s undeniable, the mark on his wrist matches mine. His breathing is harsh in my ear, the only sound in the night. I can’t stop staring at where his white dress shirt has slid up his wrist. His fingers twitch and I startle out of my stupor. His eyes are wide.

“Theo-” he starts and pulls his arm away forcefully, “It’s not-”

But I don’t know how he could deny it. The bird’s eyes are staring at me in a way that almost seems accusing.  _ ‘How could you have missed this’  _ and also  _ ‘how dare you see me.’ _

“You knew?” I hear myself ask. 

“I-”

“All this time, you knew?”

Boris’ eyes are pleading, but I can’t look at them for long: I keep getting drawn back to  _ my  _ mark on  _ His  _ skin. I reach for his arm again and he lets me. I run a finger over it gently. I never thought I would see it on anyone, least of all on Boris. Surely he would have said something?    
“I couldn’t tell you,” he whispers as if to answer me.    
I look up. There’s something growing in my chest; I don’t know if I will explode or collapse. The parking lot is terribly silent around us. I don’t understand anything anymore, there are memories flashing through my mind faster then I can process. Boris, wrapping our fingers together. Boris, shuddering as I dragged those same fingers against the skin of his chest. Boris, meeting my eyes as if in a dare as he pressed his lips to my knuckles. 

“I thought I was alone.” 

“I know!” he cries, “you told me!”

There’s unspeakable pain in his eyes and a sort of apology. I blink. There’s not much more I’m capable of at this point, this new knowledge has rearranged everything I thought I knew about our relationship and does this mean-? I don’t want to think about what it means that Boris is supposed to be everything for me.

“I could not tell you, and I didn’t want to at first! By the time I thought I could, it was too late, you were leaving and then getting married and, Potter, you didn’t want me-” 

The something is building hotter inside me, like anger and sadness and betrayal and _how could you_ and _this was what I wanted_ —not that I’d ever admit that (how does he not know)— and I feel a bit like I’m going to throw up.  
“What would you have me say, Theo!” he shouts, it’s too loud.  
“I don’t know!” I yell back, my chest burning. 

He steps back like I’ve hit him and his arm falls limply from my grasp. The sleeve of his shirt falls across the mark  — my mark — and I can breathe for a moment. 

“I- we have to leave,” Boris mumbles, remembering the body at our feet suddenly.    
I turn to walk away.    
“Potter! Where are you going?” 

His boots clatter on the concrete behind me. I feel the warmth of his hand before he fully grasps my shoulder. 

“Get in the car,” he says.

I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t. I should be able to, but there are too many things inside me right now and I can’t look at him. 

“I need to think, Boris.”

“You can think in the car!” he says desperately. 

I need to get away from him and his hurt eyes and the trembling of my heart. I don’t know how far I’ll have to go to escape the last one, but I’ll try.   
“I’m going to find another place to stay for tonight.”

His hand leaves my shoulder and I just barely stop myself from shivering. I stare at my shoes and forcefully don’t let myself hear the harshness in Boris’ breath. 

“Of course,” he says, and I don’t let myself wonder about his tone.

I walk into the night. 

\-------

It’s snowing in the streets and everything is picture-perfect, a direct contrast from five minutes ago, standing on the edge of a puddle of another man’s blood. My hands are shaking and I curl them into fists. There’s something sticky along my wrists. When I look down there’s red on the cuffs of my jacket. It’s enough to startle me out of my spinning thoughts, and I see more and more red on my clothes. And on my fingers. There’s a smear of it across my white shirt where I’d touched it. Then I realize the blood on my hands and sleeves must be Boris’. 

I breathe in sharply. The air stings. I need to get off the street, I must look like a mess. My hands and clothes are covered in blood, I can feel myself shaking, and I don’t even want to know what my face looks like right now. 

My soulmate. Boris was my soulmate. And he’d known. He’d known since Vegas, eight years ago. I can’t stop thinking about it. How he must have known almost immediately; I’d never tried to hide my marks. I don’t know how I’d never noticed other than the fact that I was trying not to push to see them. He’d known, and he’d lied. Unless one of this didn’t match mine, Kotku’s had never matched his. He knew exactly how I’d felt about my marks, probably knew it better then I remembered telling, and he’d still lied, let me think I was destined to be alone. Let me think that the painting had stolen more than my mother from me. I hated it suddenly  —t he marks on my skin and the painting they mimicked — for the way it had ruined my life. I wish I’d never stolen it, I wish I’d never even seen it. I wish I’d never shown it to Boris. He already got the rest of me, I- 

I realize that I’m clenching my fist hard enough to hurt. The blood is tacky now, sticking my fingers together and drying in the cracks on my knuckles. That is a memory too —Boris bandaging my fingers. I wonder if I’ll be able to see any part of me without remembering Boris’ hands on it. Remembering him shuddering at my fingers on what were apparently my soulmarks. I’d been stupid. 

There’s a glowing sign up ahead that reads  _ Hotel  _ in red letters. I step inside. I only have my wallet on me and for a moment I wonder if my credit cards will work here before I see a couple hundred dollars shoved in the back. I pull my jacket tightly around me and stride up to the front desk. The woman there gives me a strange look, but takes the money without speaking when I ask for a room. She frowns at me for a moment after she brings back my key.

“Are you… okay, sir?” she asks eventually. 

I don’t even want to imagine what I look like to her, pale and sweaty and smelling of metal. I don’t look like the kind of man who just has a hundred dollars laying around. I attempt to smile at her in a normal way.

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

She nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe or trust me. 

“Here’s your room key,” she mumbles, handing me the key with the very tips of her fingers. 

She doesn’t meet my eyes again even when I thank her. 

I know when to end a conversation. I make myself scarce and find my way to my room. It’s a modest room, a double bed and a small bathroom, a tiny tv and a small dresser. There wasn’t even a fridge. I collapse on the bed, not even bothering to take off my shoes. I can feel the adrenaline wearing off, and my whole body is screaming with fatigue. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Then I’m off the bed, stripping my clothes like they’re on fire and turning the water in the shower as hot as it will go. It burns, a little, but I don’t even feel it through the panic and betrayal spinning through my head. 

All I can see is Boris’ face right before I turned away; sort of desperate and pleading. I don’t understand why he had to hide this. I spent so many nights believing that the pain in my chest was my only companion through life, and this whole time he’d known that it was him I was waiting for. Yes, he was a boy, but that fact paled in comparison to the fact that he was mine. Unless there was only one mark that matched and he hadn’t been able to admit to that. It wasn’t unheard of. Rare, but not impossible, especially for a first love mark. What if his mark was only a temporary feeling? Could I deal with that? Could I deal with any of this? It changed everything. I felt the irrepressible urge to escape but there was no mini-fridge here full of liquor, and no pills in my pocket. 

What was I doing here?

It really hit me then, I jerked out of the strange daze I’d been in since the first gunshot and remember that I’d left Boris is an underground parkade with at least one body and a gunshot wound on his arm. What was he to do? Drive himself to the hotel? After all that?

I rush my way through the rest of the shower, scrubbing the blood vigorously from under my fingernails. I don’t have any clothes but the ones I was wearing, so I’m forced to put them back on. Blood sings in my ears and my thoughts blur again as I run out onto the street, my hair still dripping. The woman at the front desk makes an aborted noise in my direction, but I’m out the door before I process it. The sky is at the darkest stage right before the light starts to creep in; I must have laid there for longer than I’d thought. There are no cabs and I have no idea where I would go to find one. Even if I did, my clothes are still horribly bloodstained and I must look hysterical. I fumble for my phone. If I could just call him-

Even through the convoluted mess of my emotions, I know I need him to be okay. 

The phone rings and rings until I’m afraid he won’t answer and then there’s silence. 

“Hello?” he asks. 

I take a deep breath. He knows who’s calling, it’s evident in the cautious tone of his voice. 

“Is everything okay?” I ask (and I mean ‘are  _ you  _ okay’).

The line is silent.    
“Yes. Do you need-?”   
Do I need what? I don’t know what I need. To leave? To see him? To stop existing? I need answers I suppose, more than anything else.

“Can you come and get me?” I ask finally. 

“Of course, Potter,” he replies quietly. 

I tell him where I am. He only takes about fifteen minutes. I jump when he steps up next to me. 

“What are you seeing?” he asks, not looking at me. 

I stare at his profile. There’s something set in his jaw and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, like he was stopping himself from something. 

“Nothing in particular.”

“Well, let us go back then,” he whispers and then turns away. 

I follow a couple of steps behind because there is a pain in his voice that I don’t know how to approach. I wonder, suddenly, how hard it was for him these past eight years, knowing I was something more to him than he or I were prepared to handle. The line of his back is stiffened by the black dress coat he’s wearing, a bit bulky around his left bicep. He looks intimidatingly calm in the streetlights. I don’t know how to talk to him. He stares straight ahead and doesn’t try to break the silence. I’m not used to this awkwardness between us, we’ve never been the sort for quiet. 

I keep waiting for us to get into a car, but we just keep walking. And walking. Until we’re standing in front of a familiar building and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me; I was only a few blocks away this entire time. Boris smiles out of the corner of his mouth like he can’t help it. It’s not until we’ve started climbing the stairs that I start to realize that eventually, we’re going to have to talk. Boris stops in front of my room and just looks at me. His eyes are dark, I can’t read what he’s thinking. 

“Theo-” he starts hesitantly, “we should talk.”

I can feel my shoulders hunch in and my fingers twitch even though he’s echoing my own thoughts. 

“About what?”

It’s a stupid question and he knows it, the glare he shoots me is well deserved. 

“You know what,” he hisses and then unlocks my door (spare key? I don’t know how but Boris is unpredictable and a little miraculous so I don’t question it too much) and shoves me inside. 

“Wha-” the words catch in my throat at the feeling of his hand on the back of my neck. 

“I could not tell you because neither of us were ready,” Boris whispers, “besides, my father would have killed me.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

“Because he wouldn’t have for any of the rest of it?” 

His breath stutters and I can feel it against my chest where we’re pressed a little too close. I’m very aware of the door at my back. He knows I’m not wrong. 

“What was it, Boris, did I not fit in your life? Not cool enough, too volatile? Did I make you bleed one too many times?”

His face twists into something like anger and he steps back. The loss of his warmth is excruciating. I can deal with it though. I couldn’t stand the earnestness on his face as he’d first turned to me in the hallway, like I could be anything close to what was good and right for either of us, but I understood his anger. 

“Fuck you!” He spits, “you have been everything to me! Good and kind! You opened your door when no one else cared and now you think I would turn my back on you? I am not supposed to feel this about you, my best friend, you were hurting so much and I could not- there is no burden I would not bare for you, no secret I would not keep. You had your mother and the painting and really! What was I supposed to say? You hated it!”

“I didn’t-“

“You did! ‘Boris’ you would say ‘what a cruel fate it is to have my soulmark be the thing that is keeping me from my mother.’ You always said that if you hadn’t stayed to look at it and that girl who was just as interested as you were in it you would be happy! You and her, I could not be the thing keeping you from her.”

It makes sense, in a strange, twisted way. Of course, I do remember saying these things  — or at least thinking them — but to hear  _ Boris _ say them is something else. I had no idea I was saying them to my soulmate. The one person who was guaranteed to not be selfish with me. I hate him for not seeing that I was trying to escape the truth, that I was unloved then and as far as I knew I would always be, the painting the only thing that would keep me company. I hate myself more, for being stupid enough to not look at his marks. He is a couple of steps away from me tugging at his coat now, his cheeks are flushed with emotion and his motions are jerky, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“They all match?” 

He nods. 

“My father- he hated them, said it made me weak.” 

I want to look away from the depth of his gaze but I can’t, not now. Boris blinks. 

“He said that there was something wrong with me if I committed myself to one person. He said many ugly things, Potter, and truly, I am ashamed to say I believed him enough to lie to you.”

His voice trembles at the end. I don’t want to forgive him, but I have never been able to truly stay mad at him. I take a step toward him and he looks up, hopeful maybe. 

“Can I see?” I ask quietly.

Confusion flickers across his face but he shrugs his coat off regardless. It crumples to the floor sadly —I spare a thought for the probably extraordinarily expensive wool— and he’s left in a black button-up, a different one from earlier. He begins to unbutton it and I’m suddenly aware of blood rushing to my cheeks. I didn’t think this through. His skin is very pale against the black of his shirt and I remember now that neither of us turned on a light: the streetlights are casting golden light onto the tops of his collarbones and it’s only because of the gradual lightening of the room that I can make out his face at all. I’d forgotten that the last time I’d seen him like this had been when we were children, not that this was anything like those times. I was doing this purely out of curiosity. It’s a little hard to remember that as his shirt slips off his shoulders —which are much broader then I remember— and my eyes catch on the mark over his chest. I’m too close before I even realize it. His breath catches. His skin is warm under my fingers, it always has been: a Russian boy who’s been cold so much that his body never stops producing heat. The skin of his mark (my mark!) doesn’t feel any different, but it doesn’t stop something from loosening in my chest, something I hadn’t even realized was clenched. His shirt is dangling from one of his wrists, brushing against my shoes, but he doesn’t seem to be able to move to take it off. I press my hand fully against his chest and look up to his eyes. He’s watching me, his gaze unreadable in the dim light. His eyelashes cast him in shadow. Without breaking our stare, I brush my fingers against the bandage on the bicep before reaching down and slipping the shirt off his wrist. It crumples to the floor, probably getting dirty, but I can’t bring myself to care. My fingers find the newly bared mark almost instinctually. 

“The other?” I ask, my voice low. 

His stare changes then, turns almost challenging. The hand that’s not held down by my own reaches for the hand on his chest and then slowly drags it down. I can hardly breathe, something forbidden burning in my chest, but it’s easy to pretend that this is normal with the sun just barely starting to light up the room. Our joined fingers stop on his hip, my fingers curled around it and just brushing his pants. I look down. I can see it between my fingers, lines of black and pale yellow stark against the cool tones of his skin. I brush my thumb across the tiny head and can feel a shiver go through his body. His left hand moves slowly enough that he doesn’t dislodge the grip I have on his wrist to grab the back of my neck and I look up. His gaze is a question I don’t know the answer to. Our foreheads knock together when he moves forward. 

“Potter-”

I choke on a breath and pull him in. His hand jerks from mine and clutches at my side, but I just squeeze his hip tighter. His lips are still for a long moment before something relaxes and he strokes his fingers over the back of my neck distractedly; it feels nice, almost as nice as the warmth of his hip in my hand and the gentle way he’s pressing into me. It hasn’t ever been like this before, for one, it’s morning and we’re sober instead of it being 5 am with us high out of our minds or so drunk we can’t really remember. He’s never been gentle with me before either, and I wonder idly if it’s because he couldn’t be or if I wouldn’t let him. Regardless, the press of his fingers against my shirt is unbearably tender and I feel my heart racing. Surely he can feel it as well. We stand like that for an infinite moment before he pulls away and I open my eyes. He looks curious, but not weary. 

“You have forgiven me?” he asks quietly. 

I think about it for a moment. There isn’t anything toxic or explosive simmering inside me to my surprise. Only a quiet understanding. I know that this was how it had to happen. This is the only way we were the same. 

“I don’t think there’s anything to forgive you for,” is my answer.

“For the painting?”    
“Even for that.”

He hums and slides his hand from my side around to rest on my back. We stand there, in the rising sun, until I have to kiss him again. Then, I re-learn his body, the one that is filled out from food and an active life and hardly even resembles the Boris I knew. I learn what he looks like in the sun, with his curls sticking to his forehead, with his fingers curled in the sheets. I learn how he sounds when he’s not afraid, how his breath catches every time I touch one of his marks. I learn what it feels like to have him pressed against me and actually have the time to feel it, and not to make excuses for why I enjoy his hands on me. We learn each other in the light as we never bothered to do in the dark. 

It’s fine, in the moment. I find myself hoping the moment lasts, as too-good-to-be-true as it seems. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let Theo and Boris be soft 2020  
anywho, I hope you enjoyed this! I love reading your thoughts, comments are my lifeblood  
there will be one more chapter after this one, and then maybe an epilogue if that's a thing you guys want. Let me know!  
Main blog:[x](https://iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com/)  
Goldfinch blog: [x](https://thegoldenfnch.tumblr.com/)  
Tumblr post: [x](https://thegoldenfnch.tumblr.com/post/190714152292/ive-got-the-story-of-us-written-on-my-skin)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Theo and Boris finally have that conversation we've (I've) been waiting for.  
And I've got some things to say as well.  
I wanted to thank everyone who's commented and left kudos, and even everyone who's read. I have had a TIME writing this, and the goldfinch fandom has been so welcoming! I know it's taken a while to get to the end, but I hope you've all enjoyed the journey as much as I have, and look! I've written my second longest story ever. They're just that stubborn. anyway, I've had so much fun and I hope this last chapter is everything you guys want.

I wake up to a half-lit room. The sun has started to set already, although that’s not really surprising as we’d only gotten to sleep hours after it had risen. Boris’ head is on my chest and his hair sticks to my lips when I breathe out. He shifts slightly when I tip my head to look at the clock and wait for the panic to hit me, but it doesn’t. I frown absently. 

“You’re thinking too loud, Potter,” Boris mutters.

The whisper of air on my neck tickles. His eyelashes are stupidly long. I take a moment to look at him; I’ve never really allowed myself to, something I wouldn’t name always tore my eyes away. Now I’d named it, and I was allowed to stare at the sharp ridge of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, and, when he opens them to glare at me, his eyes: beautiful, dark eyes, with a sharpness to his gaze I’d never found in anyone else; like he could see through me. 

“I’m trying to sleep,” he grumbles, and then turns his face into my neck. 

So I stare up at the ceiling instead, stroking an absent hand along his side. I’m warm and comfortable, content in a way I can’t recall being in years, if ever. 

This isn’t the place to wonder why we had been so afraid of this, especially when I knew the answers, but I can’t help but wonder where we would be if this had happened at thirteen. Somehow I doubted that wherever it was would have been good. 

“Boris?”

“Mmhm?” 

“... never mind.”

He shifts again and squints up at me. The sunlight turns his eyes from nearly black to a chocolate colour; they glow like he had little fires behind them. I wish that I could bottle this memory. I know that outside these walls I have things to fix, responsibilities, but here, just for a few hours, I want to pretend that this can be us, that we could stay here, together. 

“Do not fret on the future, Theo,” he whispers.

I’m never going to get used to the way my name sounds in his mouth, I know for him it’s a confession, basically an ‘I love you’. I’ve heard it more in the last few days then I did for three years. 

“How can I not?” I ask quietly, running a finger across his browbone. 

It’s almost painful that he just lets me. I’m not sure I’ll ever know what to do with that trust. He sighs.

“We can not control everything that happens. Right now, we’re here and you can’t do anything else yet.” 

I exhale slowly. The dark edge of the mark on his chest is peaking out from under the covers and I find myself staring at it. He shifts and I’m forced to look back up at his face.

“Just enjoy this, for now,” he says and then touches his fingers gently to my cheek. 

He’s tentative with his touches, like he isn’t completely sure I won’t push him off. Honestly, the thought doesn’t even cross my mind. The air is cool against my skin when I roll to press him back against the sheets. His hair is stark black against the generic hotel sheets and he’s smiling widely, those new white teeth shiny against his sleep-flushed skin. I kiss him, because I’m allowed that now, to take that without an excuse. He’s still grinning against my mouth and his hands tighten on my shoulders, the tips of his fingers brushing the mark on my neck. I find myself smiling as well and hurts a little, muscles I hadn’t used genuinely for years, now forced to try and contain the amount of joy in my chest. There’s a tiny voice in the back of my head yelling about Kitsey and marriage and all the things this is going to ruin, but I shove it down deep. I don’t know how long this thing is going to last, but until Boris leaves, I’m not going to worry about how I’m going to go back to my life knowing that I have a soulmate and that I’ve touched all the places that make him Mine. I let myself sink into his mouth and the soft drag of his fingers along my spine. I’d never really pegged Boris for the gentle type  —and maybe he usually wasn’t, I have vague memories of teeth and bruising grips from years ago— but there’s no other way to describe how he traces the lines of my ribs and strokes his fingers down my arms. I squeeze my eyes shut against the fading light and try to stay in this moment with him. 

I let myself be distracted until someone knocks on the door and startles me out of the pleasant tranquillity I’d found myself in. 

“Borya?” Gyuri’s voice calls through the door. 

Boris laughs, like it’s funny that other people know he’s in my room. Cold seeps into my chest, I don’t want anyone else knowing what I’ve lost when Boris goes. It seems it’s too late for that though. 

“Gyuri! If you have disturbed us for no reason you will be finding a new job!” Boris’ voice is disturbingly cheerful and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

But Gyuri just laughs back, deep and booming.

“It is about the little bird.”

I open my eyes from where I’d squeezed them shut and find Boris looking down at me with an unreadable expression. 

“Ah, we will be only a moment.”

The loss of his warmth is unpleasant, and for a second I want to just stay there and ignore the painting. After all, it had been a symbol of my loneliness for so long that I didn’t know if I could bear to see it in this new context. But Boris is hopping around the room pulling clothes on and I can’t say no to him. He looks excited when we’re both ready, a smile stretching his face wide. 

“Time to go see your bird, Potter,” he says brightly.

I can’t help but smile back at him, he’s always been able to pull me from my thoughts and into the moment. 

“Our bird,” I reply quietly.

His grin is worth the vulnerability. 

\------

Gyuri is waiting for us in the lobby. He smiles widely at us and gestures to the door. As we fall into step beside him he holds out a key to Boris. 

“Where are we going?” I ask nervously. 

Somehow being out in the light makes me feel like everyone knows. What, I don’t know. Am I worried about the painting, the matching marks on our skin, or the pleasant soreness of my muscles? Boris turns to grin at me and raises his eyebrows laughingly; I feel something in me relax. Gyuri looks between us knowingly and raises an eyebrow at me. I feel my cheeks heat. 

Boris laughs and shoves at him, not that it does much — Gyuri is built like a rock. 

“Do not tease him! He’s shy,” he exclaims. 

The boom of Gyuri’s laugh attracts more attention than I want, but at least the faces around us are smiling at his happiness instead of annoyed. 

“I am, of course, very happy for you, Borya!” he turns his attention to me, it’s kind of impressive that his stride doesn’t break at all with how focused he is on me, “no one could be surprised! Only a true mark could justify the amount of conversation this one made about you!”

Another booming laugh. 

I can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth, especially when I see that Boris is flushing. Not much can do that. 

The car is waiting right outside and we’re quickly on our way to wherever we’re going, which I now realize that I never got an answer about. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” I whisper to Boris, not eager to have Gyuri’s full attention so soon. 

Boris smiles at me, he hasn’t really stopped since we woke up. 

“After you… left, last night, Gyuri came to pick me up. I couldn’t,” he pauses and I remember the bang of the gun, the blood on his white dress shirt, “I couldn’t drive.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “I shouldn’t have left you bleeding like that.”

Boris lets out a strained laugh, “that was only a graze, Potter. It wasn’t the reason.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better. 

He sighs. 

“It is in the past now, Theo, we must move past it.” 

His hand grazes along my wrist, and I allow him to tap the pad of each of our fingers together as he gathers his thoughts. The pressure feels surprisingly good, little flushes of warmth travel through me with each brush of his skin. 

“He took me back to the hotel, but the bird; it could not come with us. I didn’t know where they took it, some place safe,” he says finally, and looks up from our hands. 

“Why now though?” I ask. 

Boris moves to pull his hand away and before I can think about it my fingers are curling between his and he’s jerked to a stop. A smile curls the edges of his lips and I remember how they taste. I shake my head a little to focus, but it’s harder when Boris squeezes my hand back and meets my eyes. 

“Gyuri knew not to disturb us.”

I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks and Boris must be able to see it, because he laughs and leans forward to poke Gyuri’s shoulder.

“Gyuri has heard enough of my rambling to last him a lifetime! He would never loose the chance to let someone else take the burden!”

“Enough for several, actually!” Gyuri contradicts, but his smile is easy and his shoulders are loose so I know he’s joking. 

I smile and it’s almost not tight. 

\-----

We arrive at what I assume is the building a couple of minutes later and Gyuri parks the car and gets out of it, but doesn’t move towards the building. 

I give Boris a questioning look when he doesn’t move to get out, but he just shrugs and says, “I think this should be just for you.”

“But- what about you?” I ask. 

Boris pats my knee and scooches over in the seat to reach across me for the door handle.

“I have had eight years to look at that painting, and it was never what I really wanted,” he says softly. 

I can only blink for a moment, fighting the burn of tears behind my eyes and a little stunned. 

“Potter, this painting… It is on my skin, but for you; it is your life,” Boris continues, staring straight into my eyes.    
“Maybe I don’t want it to be though,” I reply equally as quietly, and reach up to touch his jaw. 

There’s a small part of me that recoils at the idea that there are people around us that can see my softness  —my weakness— right out in the open, but this is my  _ soulmate,  _ the only person in this entire world who has my marks on their skin, so I push that part down and let myself lean forward enough to press our foreheads together. His hand grasps the back of my neck desperately. 

“I have been controlled by the fear that that painting was all I was ever going to have since I was thirteen. I don’t want that anymore, it’s not mine to keep,”  _ -not like I want you to be, _ I think, “will you come say goodbye with me?” I whisper. 

His eyes close as I speak and the hand on my neck clenches when I finish. I’m afraid for a moment that he’ll refuse, say what I’ve been thinking since I woke up, that he  _ Isn’t _ mine to keep, that he wants me to have the painting as a reminder, but he’s going to go back to whatever he did the last eight years and leave me alone in New York. I start to pull back but then his eyes open and they’re glistening with tears. 

“You want me to come back with you?” he asks; because  _ of course _ he’d heard what I hadn’t said, I wanted  _ him _ instead. 

I can only nod and close my own eyes, unwilling to see his face as he refused. 

“Theo…” he trails off. 

I open my mouth to make excuses, to say something that would sound less like ‘please’ less like ‘never leave, I never want you to leave’ but before anything can come out of my mouth his lips are on mine. It’s slightly uncomfortable, my lips slack and our heads tilted at strange angles, and there are definitely too many people around for me to relax into it, but he just holds himself there for a moment, like he’s making sure it’s real, that I mean it. 

“You want me to come back with you, “ he sounds surprised and my chest hurts to hear it. 

“I’ve always wanted you to come back with me,” I confess. 

His startled exhale hits my chin. 

“How could you not know that?” I ask, feeling like I’ve failed. 

Boris shakes his head, his hair sticking in my eyelashes. 

“I thought after I made you wait like this it would be the end.”

I laugh quietly. 

“The universe says you’re stuck with me,” I reply. 

Boris laughs back and finally lets me pull away. 

“You should still go see it alone,” he says, “I know it is the last piece of your mother.”

I nod and he pushes the door open, his arm brushing along my stomach and making me look down just in time to catch a flash of a wing on his wrist. The ache that’s been in my chest since I first saw the painting suddenly releases, I’ve found what I was always searching for in that piece of oil and cloth, and it’s this startling, striking man; the only one who could ever make me relax.

I get out of the car.

The walk to the door seems to take ages, but then I’m inside and a woman is smiling pleasantly at me. 

“Theo?” she asks, her accent —surprisingly— American. 

I nod and she leads me up a set of stairs and into the attic but lets me venture into the room by myself. 

The box holding my painting —I really should stop thinking of it like that— sits on a desk along the far wall. I find myself holding my breath as I flip the case open and once again find myself staring at familiar brushstrokes. 

I feel nothing looking at it. 

There’s no pain, no longing, nothing to it but faint reminders of sadness and smoke. My mother is not here, and neither is my soul. It’s just a painting. I reach out to hover a finger above the delicate wings, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. I remember thinking yesterday that it was beautiful, but now… I’d never noticed until I was tracing Boris’ marks, but there was no chain on my paintings. I couldn’t say if that meant something, but looking at this flightless bird, doomed to forever be still and trapped, it felt like it was sending me a message. This is not who I was meant to be. 

“What will you do with it?” I ask.

The woman startles me by actually answering. 

“We were told to let you decide that, actually,” she answers, moving closer to peer over my shoulder. 

I take a deep breath. 

“I think it’s time for it to go bad to where it belongs,” I say finally. 

She touches my shoulder lightly, “we can make that happen.”

I nod and know that I’m done here. There is nothing else for this place to give me. 

I make for the stairs but stop when the woman calls after me. 

“Theo? Take care with Boris.”

Her face is impassive when I look back at her, but I’m very aware that these people are dangerous, and extremely dedicated. I nod. 

Then I leave. 

I don’t look back.

\------

Boris is waiting in the car, talking to Gyuri, who has gotten back in the car in the time I spent inside. Gyuri takes in my empty hands and gives me a solemn nod. I feel some of the tension leave me with his obvious approval and slide in beside Boris. 

The ride back to the hotel is filled with Boris and Gyuri’s mindless chatter, but I feel oddly jumpy; I know when we get back to the hotel it will be time for us to talk. 

The door finally shuts behind us and then it’s quiet. Boris watches me with dark eyes and I feel my fingers begin to shake. 

“Theo-”

“Boris-”

We both clamp our mouths shut at the same time and then I take a deep breath. 

“I- We- we should talk.”

He nods. 

There isn’t really anywhere to sit in the room so we settle against the headboard and stare at the abstract painting on the wall across from us. 

“You know I… want you to stay,” I start slowly, “but I don't really know what that will mean.”

I look over at Boris to find him rubbing his thumb over where I know his mark is. 

“I don’t know how to live like that, Potter,” he whispers.

“I don’t either really. We could figure it out?” 

I’m too aware that I sound desperate, but that’s how I feel, and I know that if he doesn’t come back with me I may never see him again. I don’t know if I could live with that. 

Boris clenches and unclenches his hands before looking at me. Whatever he sees seems to make him relax. 

“I could try, for you,” he concedes, the slightest uptick in the corner of his mouth. 

I can’t control the face I make at that, my mouth feels stretched too wide. Then another thing crosses my mind and my smile drops. His eyes go concerned. 

“I’m engaged.” 

His mouth falls open like he’d forgotten.

“Kitsey.”

My finger is bare when I look down at it, but I know my ring is just in the bathroom on the counter. The mark on my other ring finger catches my eye and I press down on it before looking back at Boris. He’s watching me seriously. 

“Do you love her?” he asks. 

“I-” I shake my head, “not like that. Not anymore at least.”

“Did you before you came here?” 

His voice is quiet, insecure if Boris has ever been insecure (which I’m realizing he probably has been; more than I could have imagined)

“No,” I say and reach for his hand. 

“I could never have been, not with this,” I tap the bird on his wrist, “amd this,” the bird on his chest that just barely shows through the material of his shirt, “and this,” I say again and reach over to brace my hand against his hip and lean over him. 

“We haven’t figured it all out,” he says, his breath warm on my lips, just barely brushing our skin together. 

“I don’t think I need to have it figured out to know I want this,” I reply, but I don’t push him, just hover there until he lets out a sigh and draws me down to cover his body. 

“Of course,” he mumbles, only intelligible because I’m barely centimetres away, “we’ll work it out.”

Then we kiss, and I don’t worry about what will happen when we get back to New York, because I know no matter what else, I’ll have my soulmate (Boris! Always Boris.) beside me, and we have time to figure the rest out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here we are! watch out for a possibly spicy epilogue sometime in the near future? other then that, this is the end, thank you all so much for sticking around.  
I love you all  
(ps. let me know if you found all the times each mark was for bc it was pretty much the basis of the story and I want to know if people noticed)  
and as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated! you can find me These Places:
> 
> Main blog:[x](https://iwritefanfictionsometimes.tumblr.com/)  
Goldfinch blog: [x](https://thegoldenfnch.tumblr.com/)  
Tumblr post: [x](https://thegoldenfnch.tumblr.com/post/190714152292/ive-got-the-story-of-us-written-on-my-skin)

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iwritefanfictionsometimes)  
Thoughts? Kudos?


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